


Blood of the Conqueror

by Daemon_Belaerys, KadenIV



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Explixit Acts of Sexual Nature, F/F, F/M, Game of Thrones people will die, Incest, Jon Snow is a Targ, M/M, Multi, Period-Typical Underage, R plus L equals J & A, Ramsey's father's a coont, Sassy Oswell is Sassy, Sibling Incest, Smut, fAegon is a Targ
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-08 08:44:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12860961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daemon_Belaerys/pseuds/Daemon_Belaerys, https://archiveofourown.org/users/KadenIV/pseuds/KadenIV
Summary: KadenIV and I had a small discussion about what if ToJ led to twins. Of course, being us, we fucked it up royally beyond proportions.OR, me and Kaden write a badass #TARGARYENRESTORATION fanfic with some hinted reincarnation sprinkled on top. Suck it bitches!





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Avery_Fontaine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avery_Fontaine/gifts), [ScholaroftheArchive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScholaroftheArchive/gifts), [serpentguy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/serpentguy/gifts), [ssjmrxi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssjmrxi/gifts), [CadenceIX](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CadenceIX/gifts), [DolorousEdditor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DolorousEdditor/gifts).



> This is a collaboration effort between Daemon_Belaerys and KadenIV, plan is for weekly updates.

Blood **of the Conqueror: Prologue**  
**Eddard**

 

Ned Stark was drifting in that place between consciousness and sleep again. His thoughts and considerations torturing his mind once more. The cold of his chamber forced the furs to his chest as he tossed and turned, alone, in his large feathered bed. He’d scorned Cat’s affections and her effort to warm the coolness of his anger at her forcing him to push away the boy. He knew sooner or later he would need to do something. Jon was getting less and less tolerable of Ned’s lady wife and her ever present anger at him. He was openly cursing her for the faith she held and the manner in which she raised her children. He would constantly challenge her authority, refusing to acknowledge her presence unless it was to rebuke or shame her. She’d barred him from attending morning or evening meal in her presence, when Eddard had lifted this, the boy had shown him why he was wrong to. So he had conceded and reinforced his wife.

When Cat had begged him to send Jon to the wall that first time, four moons passed, he had blatantly refused and refrained from talking to her for near a week, unless to greet or ask a necessary question. Yet as time went on and tensions rose between them he was beginning to see little to no alternative. He had once thought to send the lad to foster, maybe the GreatJon would have taken him under wing and used all the anger that was boiling beneath the surface. ' _The Wolf’s Blood,'_ he thought as he sighed and rolled from his left side to his right. ' _As strong in him as it was in Brandon or Lya at that age. Stronger than my own.'_ It was only recently that he thought it best for both the boy and his family. It was Luwin that had convinced him in the end, _“Send him North, my lord. Your own brother mans the wall, mayhaps young Snow can find honour and respect doing something the Starks have done for generations.”_ Jon’s response was less that compliant.

“ _You would discard me like some common servant that has outstayed his tenure, Father?” He had exclaimed, his indigo eyes a storm of anger and hurt. “You would house a Greyjoy over your own son. Over your own flesh?” It was then that his expression hardened into a bitterness Ned had never seen. So full of resentment and hate as realisation dawned on him. “This was **her** wasn’t it.” It was a statement that had not asked for answer._

“ _No Jon, it’s not like that, lad. I would see you do good for the Realm. To do as my brother did and join the watch. Cat had little to do with this.” He knew when he said that that Jon didn’t believe him. He knew it didn’t ease the anger that welled inside and begged for release. “It’s for the best,” he said as he looked into the eyes of the boy. At four and ten he was bigger that any youth had right to be at the age. He was of a height with Ned, and already a head taller than Robb. He was as broad too, if still lacking the proper fill of a man grown._

“ _Aye, Father. I’m sure it is,” His voice dripped with falsehood and anger as he left Ned’s solar, almost slamming the door with his exit._

He could feel the sleep he’d been yearning for begin to grab his legs and pull him into what he hoped was darkness. He sighed one last time as the furs of his blanket rubbed against his bearded cheek and he let the peace wash over him with a warm shiver. He hopped for dreamless sleep then, his night plagued with apparitions of a past he’d wished forgot. Of wraiths and ghosts that looked down upon him with disappointed scowls. _‘Arthur’_ , he thought as he finally drifted to sleep. _‘Oswell, Gerold, Father, Brandon. Lya…’_

He dreamt an old dream, of three knights in cloaks as white as the snow that fell in the depth of winter, of a tower filled with sorrow and tears and a blue rose in a bed stained red with blood. A dream in which old companions long gone rode with him, as strong atop their shadowed horses as they did true coursers in life. Proud Martyn Cassel, Jory’s father, faithful Theo Wull, Ethan Glover, who had been his brother’s squire; Ser Mark Ryswell, soft of voice and of heart; the crannogman, Howland Reed; Lord Dustin atop his fiery steed. He’d known their faces once, as well as he had Bran’s or Robb’s, but time wears away the details as rain upon a stone. In this dream they were but ghouls of smoke and shadow, their beasts wrought of mist and Dornish dust.

They were seven then, facing three. Three of the greatest swords the Realm had seen in a generation if half the stories had been true. Their faces were clear and chiselled as though he’d seen them just before he slept. They were clad in their pristine armour, only barely stained by the red of the sand, the Red Mountains behind them. Ser Arthur Dayne; Ashara’s brother he recalled as the white knight stood, the hilt of the fabled Dawn showed over his right shoulder. A sad smile across the Sword of the Morning’s face. Ser Oswell, the Black Bat, sat on a large rock, his gold and white sword across his lap as the whetstone drew over its blade. Nearest to Ned stood the White Bull, Ser Gerold, his face hardened and scowling as he scanned the band of seven.

“I looked for you on the Trident,” Ned said to them, his sword hand flexing.

“We were not there,” Ser Gerold answered, his voice echoed through the sands.

“Woe to the Usurper if we had been,” chuckled Oswell darkly.

“When King’s Landing fell and Ser Jaime slew your Mad King with a golden sword, I wondered where you were.” His voice grim and clear.

“Far away, Stark,” Ser Gerold replied again as he rolled his large shoulders, “Or for as mad as Aerys was he would yet sit the Iron Throne and our false brother would burn in the darkest of hells.”

“I came down on Storm’s End to lift the siege,” Ned told them as he looked at each face. “and the Lords Tyrell and Redwyne dipped their banners, and all their men bent the knee and pledged us fealty. I was certain you would be among them.”

“Our knees are stiff and do not bend, for no matter how harsh the wind bellows, the mountain does not bow.” Arthur stated flatly.

“Word reached us that Ser Willem Darry is fled to Dragonstone, with your queen and Prince Viserys. I thought you would have sailed with them.”

“Ser Willem is a good man, and true,” replied Ser Oswell with a shrug.

“But not of the Kingsguard,” The Lord Commander pointed out. “The Kingsguard do not flee.”

“Then or now.” Said Ser Arthur, as he donned his white helm.

“We swore a vow,” Ser Gerold explained.

The shadows at Ned’s side moved with dark swords in hand. They were seven, young and strong. Seven against three.

“And now it begins,” Ser Arthur said as he pulled Dawn from its scabbard down his back and wrapped both arms around the hilt. Its blade alive and white, pale as milkglass.

“No,” Ned replied as he sighed and pulled Ice from its own place along his back. “Now it ends.” As they came together blades crashing and ringing with each swing, Ned’s vision blurred and the world of the dream accelerated and stopped as he stood in the opened door to the bed chamber in the top of the tower. It was then that he saw her, the features of her own face slightly blurred, but her storm grey eyes, though weak and tired, were still as clear as the sun. In her arms she held two bundles and the blankets about her legs were soaked through with blood, a weary smile upon her lips as she looked up at him, then back at her arms.

“Your uncle’s here now little ones, he’ll take good care of you for me. He’ll teach you of your father and show you right from wrong.” Ned was knelt by her bedside now, he couldn’t hear what he was saying, or what she replied.

“This one is Raegon, named for his father, and Elia’s son.” She said handing him a boy, his eyes a brilliant purple, and on his head a shock of dark Northern hair. He felt a smile play against his lips as the boy reached up and wrapped a small hand about around his finger. His sister grew paler as she gave him the second boy. “Cregan,” She smiled fondly, “For the Northern Hand I would have him be.”

The dream shifted yet again, and now he was surrounded by pale sandstone wall, the sound of the ocean waves crashing against the shore in the distance.

“I’ll not let you take the King North, to raise as some by blow of a tavern whore, Stark.” Oswell, who they first thought dead from the fight at the Tower, said, his voice grim and threatening. The last of the Kingsguard was still adamant in his duty to the crown. “I’ll not let you send away the Prince either, you Northern mutt.”

The halls of Starfall were smoke and mist, but Oswell and Ashara were fixed and solid in his mind. “You would let the Usurper wear a crown he has no right to? You know, well as I he is no king. Just an angry boy swinging a hammer, screaming for a toy his parents took from him.”

“It’s because of that exactly that I need you and Ashara to go East, Oswell. _I_ was in King’s Landing after the Sack. _I_ was there in the Throne Room when Tywin Lannister presented the mangled corpses of Elia and her children before Robert. I saw the look of pure _glee_ at the murder of children and women, on the face of the man I would have named Good Brother.” Ned protested as passion filled him, Oswell needed to understand.

“I’ll not have Lya’s sons face that. And if the only way to avoid it to raise Raegon my son, and send Cregan with you both, then so be it.”

That was the last thing his mind bid him see, before he woke with a start. His body warm and sweaty, sheets tangled loosely about his legs as his breath caught in his throat. ‘ _Even now the past deprives me peace.’_ He thought before looking one of the windows of his chamber and seeing the sky still dark and black.

* * *

 

**Jon**

Jon stalked through the corridors of Winterfell, hoping his father have changed his mind after the previous day’s argument. It was quite late by now, the feast they had thrown in commemoration for King Robert's arrival had gone on for three nights, the King's appetite for merrymaking seeming without end, and little had been done during the days as most were still drunk and tired from the night before, and even if Jon had spent quite a bit of time outside demolishing one of the training dummies the first night, he had returned to the feast quickly enough. Ignoring Lady Stark's latest insult to him in favour of being there to drink and laugh merrily, inwardly crowing at how displeased she was at his happiness.

Some might call it petty, but who as the petty one? The boy whose only crime was to be born on the wrong side of the blanket? or the powerful Lady, wed into a noble house who did her best to treat a motherless boy as nothing more a living stain upon an old and noble name? Oh yes, regardless if Jon did as good as he could to make life sour for Lady Stark it was her that was in the wrong. All he did was be born.

So as the night had gone on and Jon had fallen deeper into his cups he had been most surprised when Lady Stark herself had appeared and informed him that his father wanted a word with him, the smug smile on her face that had replaced her usually icy glare worrying him somewhat. Just as he was about to knock on the door to his father's solar he stopped short however. Loud voices, angry and belonging to his father and uncle Benjen could be heard from within.

"NO," the voice of his uncle Benjen roared. "He's four and ten, I'm not taking him back with me to the Wall."

"I have no choice," was his father's cold reply. "I cannot take him with me south, and you know well why I cannot."

"So let him stay in Winterfell," Benjen countered. "There's more than enough here for Jon to have _something_ to do."

"He cannot," father replied. "Cat won't allow it."

"So you expect me to let him throw away his life because your shrew of a wife cannot stand the boy?" Benjen roared. "I'll not let Lya's boy bind himself to the Wall for the rest of his life because your wife is a vicious cunt Ned," Benjen continued raging, while Jon's eyes widened, what did uncle Benjen mean by Lya's boy?

"ENOUGH!" Jon almost jumped. Never had Jon heard his father scream like that before. "Brother or no I'll not have you slander my wife in my own castle!"

Even through the door Jon could hear his uncle cough up a wad of phlegm and spit it on the floor. "Lyanna's boy is more family than you're petty southern wife will ever be," he said, his voice as chilly as winter itself. "I'll not let him swear himself to the Black without knowing the truth."

"He cannot know the truth," father? countered. "It's too dangerous."

"You're not my Lord any longer, brother," Benjen said. "Either you'll tell him or I will..." there was a moment of pause. " _Where did_ this idea come from in the first place I wonder?"

"Luwin and Cat mentioned that it might be best for Jon to take the Black," father said, and Jon almost growled. _Of course_ it would be those two, thick as thieves Lady Stark and Maester Luwin were, much like Jon and Arya in truth.

Uncle Benjen laughed. "And it did not strike you as suspicious?" he asked. "Out off all the places Jon could go, either to foster, squire or just work even the only option they came up with was the Wall, I wonder Ned, were you always this blind to your wife's fears or did it take extensive practice."

A fist slammed down on a desk, "Enough!" came his father's voice, leaving little room for guessing who it was that slammed the desk. "If you cannot respect my wishes then you can leave for the Wall tonight."

"And what of Lya's wishes?" uncle Benjen asked with a trembling voice. "Did you even once consider them before you broke all faith with her memory? or did you give her false promises from the start?"

"And what should I have done?" father asked.

"Were you any sort of man brother you would have ridden straight for the Tyrell army still marching home and gotten them to help you put our nephew on the throne. Instead, like a coward you stood back and let the whore monger rule as King, while sending one of Lya's sons across the sea, alone and without kin, while taking the other to raise him here as your bastard without any right to inheritance when he is the rightful King, and now you wish to take what little he has left, and without telling him why even."

At this point Jon was seeing red. The conversation left little doubt as to whom they were talking about – _him_ _–_ and the more he overheard the angrier he got. The revelation that he apparently had a twin brother, and had been raised – and treated as a bastard when he wasn't, was the last straw.

Jon slammed the door open, being greeted by two shocked faces, “what did you hear?” his father - no, uncle, asked apprehensively.

Jon laughed, “How about all of it _**‘father’**_ ,” he replied through gritted teeth.

Ned Stark collapsed into his chair, all the fight left him. “Close the door,” he said hoarsely.

Jon – if that was even his name swiftly closed the door behind and swiftly strode over to where his uncle – both of them most likely, were, with uncle Benjen having a vindicated smile on his face, while Ned Stark looked older than he had ever done before. “Speak,” Jon demanded, his fierce temper coming to the fore.

“You’ve probably divined most of it by now,” Benjen remarked. “You’re Lyanna’s son, by Rhaegar.”

“One of them?” Jon asked, remarking on the fact that they had mentioned another brother.

“Your younger twin, Cregan,” Ned said.

“Ahh yes," he mocked, "why am I the only one you took in?” Jon demanded. “WHERE IS MY BROTHER!”

“Peace Jon,” Ned tried to calm him. “Cregan was born with your mother’s eyes and your father’s hair. I couldn’t very well bring me a child with Targaryen hair could I?” Ned asked angrily.

“Which is why you should have taken the Throne while there were still armies in a position to do so,” Benjen muttered bitterly.

Ned sighed, no doubt this was an argument the two men had had before. “I made the choice I deemed to be right at the time.”

“And your wife?” Jon growled, “Was it right how she treated me? How _you_ allowed her to treat me.”

“No it was not,” Ned said. “Yet I could not tell her.”

“Might I ask why?” Jon asked.

“Cat’s never been the best at… keeping her opinions to herself. Had she said something to the wrong person Robert would have had my head, along with yours and all my children.”

Jon gaped. “And _this_ is the man you call your King? Your _**friend** _?” he shook his head incredulously. “Is Jon even my name?” he asked bitterly.

“No,” Ned admitted. “Your mother named you Raegon, after your father and brother.”

Jon laughed, “So the Targaryen looking one of us is named after a northman, while I whose looks are of the North has the valyrian name,” he continued laughing at the absurdity of it all, not noticing Ned’s wince at Jon’s claim of being of the North.

“So now you understand why you must take the Black?” Ned said. “Cat won’t permit you to stay in Winterfell, and you’re not safe in the south.”

“I’d rather join the Golden Company than take take up with thieves and rapists,” he spat harshly. ”It is not as if I would stay in this place any longer. You let me shake the hand of the man who killed my father and endorsed the murder of my siblings and let me live a life shame as your bastard. I’ll be gone by the time the Royal party leaves,” he added, and then stormed out of the room, he had a practice dummy to murder.

 

**Author's Note Daemon: So yeah, me and Kaden just get more plotbunnies as we sit around on discord. This was partially born out of a discussion between the two of us and our friend Avery_Fontaine, partially because of a small RP we are running together with Avery and ScholaroftheArchive, and lastly our own overactive imaginations. It's our hope to pump out a chapter a week or so, since collaboration work with voice chat usually leads to productive evenings. So peace out and I hope you all like it.**

**Cheers**

**Daemon_Belaerys.**

 ___________________________________________

**Author's Note Kaden: Pretty much what happens when you're awake at 4am and talking personal theories. This stems from a favourite of mine, fAegon and Jon being twins. In book canon both are of an age and it's clear fAegon can't be Aegon Rhaegarson because of this. Along with this is the RP we're running with Ave and Scholar, in which I proposed this same idea. As Daemon said, we _hope_ to get out a chapter every week, so don't get your fookin arses rammed because we missed a few days.**

**Gratitude,**

**Kaden IV.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Raegon**

 

As he promised his ‘father’ Jo-Raegon was gone by the time the King left for the south, though not in the way Ned Stark had hoped for. Raegon had spent his remaining time in Winterfell as best he could. Gathering together what coin he had, getting his hands on food that would last for a long time before going bad. Hard bread, biscuits and cheeses mostly. Hardly a feast, but better than starving.

He had arranged for Mikken to make a thin slender blade for Arya that she called Needle. That last hug they shared was harder than he’d thought possible. He hoped that he might run into her in King’s Landing, but he doubted it, as it was he’d have to reach the capitol first anyhow, and not get caught while doing so or his uncle might just send two of his guards to forcibly lead him back to the North.

His uncle Benjen had chipped in with what little he could. Giving Jon a small pouch of gold dragons, and also somehow convincing Lord Stark to part with the letters and documents found with his mother in Dorne. Mostly it was simple notes and a few more intimate letters between his mother and the late Prince, ‘I _write like my father,’_ he thought when he first saw the flowing script of Rhaegar Targaryen. The only real document of any particular importance, in that it would see him without a head if ever it was discovered was the wedding certificate between his father and mother. _‘Thank you, Uncle,’_ he thought as he rode out of the gates of Winterfell on a fine courser, a horse he had been in charge of for near five years now, so he considered it to be his own horse, even if it had never been explicitly stated.

He’d made camp almost a day’s ride from Winterfell and settled down to wait for the Royal party to leave, easily snagging himself a pair of fine rabbits with his bow to eat while he waited, Ghost eagerly trotting over to bring them back after he brought them down. As he waited for the rabbit to cook over the small fire he’d made for himself he absently ran a whetstone over the sword he commissioned from Mikken, absently letting his thoughts wander free, going over anything and everything. From how his twin brother must have lived, if he was still alive even in Essos, to fond memories of his childhood, all the shenanigans he Robb and Arya came up with, and how sooner or later they’d all been frogmarched up to see Lady Stark. He growled angrily as he tough on his uncle’s bitch of a wife. She had always despised him, and the older he got the worse she became.

Two days after his departure the King finally left, the large Royal party moving slowly south in a long trailing line, as if some big worm or snake, slowly but surely slithering away. Packing up his small camp he turned his horse towards the south as well and set out at a slow walk, keeping the King’s retinue always in sight, near the dip of the horizon.

He’d allowed himself to trail behind the King’s caravan by near half a day, making sure to keep the rear half in sight for as much as possible. He knew Lord Stark would react to his choice of coming South poorly, but Raegon didn’t care. ‘ _Raegon’_ He thought bitterly as he patted the thick neck of his dark courser. The beast had begun to grow used to the ever lingering presence of Ghost, not twenty paces from when Rae sat atop his horse.

‘ _All these years a bastard. A dark, and constant_ _stain on the honour of the Honourable Lord Stark.’_ He mused as he brought a hand to the collar of his furred cloak, raising it slightly to protect his neck from the sudden cold breeze that seemed to seep into him. He knew he shouldn’t have cut his hair shorter on the sides and back, with the top only half an inch or so longer. Yet some familiar feeling in his mind told him this way was better more practical than a mop of woman’s hair on his head, at least he’d never have to hear Robb and Theon’s by now overused joke about liking his hair better than any woman. His mind wandered to Bran, the boy he’d still see as a brother even in light of what Lord Stark had told him had passed. The young lad’s dark Tully red locks reaching his chin and jaw, with his see blue eyes as clear as the pools in the Godswood. ’ _Bran,’_ He thought solemnly, ‘ _Wake up soon.’_ He coughed and shook his head of darker thoughts before letting a sharp whistle calling Ghost to him.

The direwolf was already the size of a large hunting dog if not a medium sized wolf, his fur as white as the Summer snows Raegon had seen in his life in the North. As Ghost ran silently to keep pace with the horse, Rae watched him from the corner of his eye; the wolf’s tongue lolling in and out of his open maw as his eyes as red as the sap that leaked from the trees of the Old Gods. With three whistles, Ghost was gone again, dashing to the south-west, edging further and further away from the King’s Road as Raegon pushed the black stallion into a gallop.

“Ghost!” He called with a yell, three whistles were the call to trot and jog. Much like the Stark children, Rae had trained his wolf well, almost as though he understood him on a deeper more mentally attuned level. So it troubled Raegon as he followed the direwolf through the gradually thickening trees that began to surround him. As he saw Ghost stood still on the tree line, watching something take place with silent, bloody eyes, Raegon rode forward and was about to call for the wolf’s attention when he heard a cruel, childish laugh.

“Aren’t you going to pick up your _sword_? Or is it only little girls you fight?” The cruel blonde boy asked, the sneer in his voice as clear as though Rae could see it.

“I said pick up your sword, now.” He repeated the command clear in his voice as the smaller, rounder lad quivered with the Princes blade pressed to his cheek.

“It’s only a stick m’lord, we was only playin’ pretend,” The fat boy stammered, before letting out a sharp yelp. Raegon had dismounted by now, his hand in Ghost’s fur as the wolf’s hackles raised and his lips curled back into a cruel and silent snarl. ‘ _He’s drawn blood.’_ Raegon thought, looking up. His eyes finding Sansa and her fiery hair, and then Arya dressed in boy’s clothes.

“ **I** am not a lord,” the blonde Prince retorted shrilly and high pitched as he pulled back his small sword as though to strike the downed boy. “And **you** are not a knight. You would do best to remember your place.” Before he could bring his sword down, Arya was attacking him wildly with a stick, screaming and shouting for Joffrey to leave the boy be. The smile on his face as he thought of Arya Underfoot running through Winterfell’s yard covered in mud faded as he watched the Prince turn on her, with sword in hand. Raegon was already sprinting forward when the back of Joffrey’s hand sent Arya to the ground. Sansa was screaming and pleading for the boy to stop, but her ‘Golden Prince,’ – as he heard her call him during the King’s stay in Winterfell – ignored her.

“I’ll gut you, you little bitch!” He exclaimed as he pointed the blade at her.

Before he could do anything with the blade, Raegon was upon him. His riding boot collided with the Prince’s sword hand, sending the blade crashing into the stream that ran through the wooded area they were in.

“You dare?!” Wailed the Golden brat, his face red and puffy. “My father will have you hanged!” He screamed before he went hurtling to the ground, his face an image of shock. Raegon looked down at him, an expression of contempt clear on his face.

“Your father will likely beat you worse than Arya did when he learns of how appallingly you’ve acted,” Raegon snarled while laying a warning hand on the hilt of his sword, sharp enough to shave a tick’s arse if he wanted.

“JON!” Arya screamed happily before throwing her arms around him, making him let out a silent ‘oomph’ at the impact. “What are you doing here?” she asked while Rae kept his eyes on the now sobbing Prince who was running away as fast has his spindly legs would carry him, his long effeminate golden locks swaying behind him as a curtain of molten gold.

“Keeping you out of trouble,” Rae said seriously before looking over at the sniffling butcher’s boy. “You alright lad?” he asked.

“I-I think so m-m’lord,” he stuttered.

Rae gave the boy’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Good lad,” he looked over to Sansa who was still panicked and crying. “Sansa, come here, SANSA!” he had to scream her name before she came over. “Listen,” he started. “The Prince is going to run off and tell on us, so when we are asked tell the truth,” he looked particularly hard at both Arya and Sansa. “Lying to the King is a grave offense, so if he asks you **must** tell the truth, do you understand?”

Sullenly both of his ‘sisters’ nodded, as did the butcher’s boy. “Then let us go, Arya you lead the way,” he told her, all four of them, as well as Ghost and Nymeria walking through the woods towards the castle they were staying at, Rae leading his horse by the reins. Almost as soon as they left the trees behind them and they were set upon by Lannister guards.

“You are under arrest,” one of them pat, sword in hand and painted straight at Rae.

“What’s going on ‘ere?” came another voice as three of the guards Lord Stark had brought with him came over to see why swords were pointed at their Lord’s ‘son’ and daughters.

“You stay out of this,” one of the Lannister guards barked, while another said,” They assaulted the Prince they did.”

“ENOUGH!” Rae barked before the argument could get out of hand. “I deny these cruel allegations, and I have a right to face my accuser.”

The Lannister guards blanched, clearly none of them were eager to escort them before the King. “He does have that right,” one of the Stark guards pointed out while the Lannister men shuffled uncertainly.

“Fine,” one of them sighed, “But you’ll be leavin’ that sword of yours here.”

The castle of Darry was a good sized building, smaller than Winterfell, but larger than small forts. It’s great feldspar-stone walls seemed freshly laid, and Rae remembered all the suffering brought upon the castle. ‘ _Prince Aemond, my ancestor had his dragon torch this place.’_ He recalled the event from a book on the Dance of Dragons that he had read in Maester Luwin’s library back in Winterfell. As he walked through the gates of the castle’s curtain walls and into the courtyard he saw two men still atop their horses, by the stables. The younger man had a beard and hair as dark and black as the King’s and he too was tall and broad even if the features on his face were somewhat effeminate. The other man was older, much older. His hair was as white as the cloak and armour he wore. Even though he’d never seen the man, he’d heard enough stories and ballads to know Ser Barristan, the Bold, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

He must have stopped walking because one of the Lannister men behind him pushed him forward.

“Keep walking bast’d, His Grace, the King waits.” Raegon looked back at the man but said nothing, choosing not to worsen the situation. They made their way to the great hall of Darry and had Rae stand before the King.

The King was just about to speak when Lord Stark finally came walking into the great hall. “What is the meaning of this!” he asked sharply, causing the King to glare sullenly at the floor, unwilling to meet his old foster brother’s gaze.

“Your daughter and her friend attacked the Crown Prince with clubs before your bastard arrived to lay his hands on him and draw steel, as well as threaten to kill him,” the Queen raged.

“That’s a filthy lie,” Arya screamed, only Lord Stark’s timely intervention kept Arya from leaping at the Queen.

“See?” the Queen crowed. “She’s as wild as that beast of hers.”

“ENOUGH!” the King shouted. “He says one thing,” he remarked, pointing at the Prince who was still sniffling while trying to hide his still red cheek, “and she says another, what am I to make of this?”

“There were two other witnesses Your Grace,” Raegon remarked. “Both myself and the butcher’s boy, and lastly Sansa.”

“This is true,” King Robert said, motioning for Sansa to come forward. “Now tell the truth, and know it is a great crime to lie to your King.”

Sansa was almost hyperventilating at this point her panicked face flitting towards the King, Prince Joffrey, the Queen and lastly Lord Stark. “I-I don’t – it happened so swiftly, I don’t remember,” she babbled.

“LIAR!” Arya screamed as she tried to jump Sansa, snatched back just in time by Raegon,” LET ME GO!” Arya screamed, “SHE’S LYING!”

“ **ARYA!** ” Lord Stark snapped loudly. “Apologize to your sister, **NOW!** ” he ordered her. Arya stared mulishly back, her eyes shining with tears of rage, but no matter how coldly her father looked at her she refused to comply. “Very well,” Eddard said finally. “I’ll deal with you later,” he turned to Jory. “See to it that my rebellious daughter is brought to bed after this, and make sure she **stays** there.

“You then boy,” the King remarked to the butcher’s boy. “Will you tell the truth of this?” And the boy did, explaining from the beginning about how Arya and he had gone looking for Rhaegar’s rubies, later they had decided to practice sword fighting with sticks. Upon accidentally hitting Arya the Prince had arrived, cut Mycah and then attempted to strike Arya with his drawn sword. Of course he hadn’t managed to land a hit because ‘Jon’ arrived just in time to stop the Prince, kicking the sword out of his hand and then striking him.

“So you **did** strike him?” Queen Cersei asked furiously.

“Your stupid boy had a sword swinging towards my sister’s head,” Rae snapped back in anger, only realizing what he had said after the words were already spoken.

“I want his head,” the Queen said with a scowl.

“Cersei,” King Robert started.

“He is your son,” the Queen snapped. “Are you going to let a bastard from some camp slut lay his hands on your son without paying for it?”

“Any man who lays hands on a Prince loses the hand,” Ser Barristan said sadly while shooting Rae a pitying look.

“Yes,” both the Queen and the Prince both got looks of sadistic glee on their faces. “Ser Meryn, bring me his hand,” the Queen said

“HALT!” King Robert roared. “I am the King here,” he snarled angrily at both his wife, and the Kingsguard who had already started to descend against Rae with his sword drawn.

“No need ‘Your Grace’,” Rae said angrily. “Your son attempts to murder my sister, yet for defending her I must lose the hand I struck him with? I can see that I’ll get no justice here so I’ll let your Gods weigh the truth of this in their hands. Let **Them** decide my fate.” Rae grinned nastily at the Queen. “I would demand trial by combat.”

Prince Joffrey’s face went chalk white, while King Robert had to pound his fist angrily on the arm rests of his chair several times in order to regain order. He looked to his foster brother with an apologetic grimace, “That is your right,” Robert conceded. “Since my son is clearly barely more than a boy, much less a man,” He sighed and turned to the first Kingsguard that met his gaze, “Ser Preston, you’ll stand for the Prince,” Robert told the man.

“Thank you Your Grace,” Rae said. “I’ll just need my sword and shield,” he looked pointedly at the guard who had confiscated his sword earlier.

“Jon,” Eddard said, “you don’t have to do this.”

“Oh I do… father,” Rae countered, “if I could borrow Ice it would be better though, if not, my shield is on my horse outside.”

His uncle stared at him for a long time before nodding. “Bring my son’s sword and shield in here,” he turned and looked at Lord Raymund whose castle they were in. “Lord Darry, could my son avail upon you for some armour?”

If anything Darry didn’t look like he expected the question, and Rae remembered that House Darry had fought for his father during the Rebellion, with Lord Raymund losing three of his brothers and his father during a single day on the trident, and then there was his uncle Willem who had died in Essos after spiriting Viserys and Daenerys away from Dragonstone. “I’ll have it seen to at once,” Lord Raymund finally said, to Raegon it looked as though he was deciding that if he had to pick between who to ‘insult’ it would be better to inconvenience the Lannister Queen rather than the Starks.

“Excellent,” Robert clapped his hands together. “Lord Darry, escort the lad to find some armour and then bring him back here when he is ready, I’ll see this matter finished tonight.

“Your Grace,” Lord Raymund acknowledged through a small well-hidden smile. Doubtlessly the King assumed Lord Darry had intended to have someone escort Rae, but now, he’d have to do it himself, the King obviously seeing through his motives, and turning the tables on the prickly Lord. “If you’ll follow me, young Snow,” Darry said calmly as he stalked out of the hall.

As Raegon walked through the feldspar stone halls of the castle with Lord Raymund he felt slightly self-conscious. The middle-aged lord was a broad man, as tall as Rae, but not as tall as the King nor his uncle Eddard, his eyes were a hard oak brown, his hair and beard a rich auburn. From how his demeanour in the presence of Robert, none would have thought that the Lord of Darry held any animosity towards the Baratheon crown. But Rae had seen his eyes. Raegon saw how Darry **looked** at the King, he could see the warm hate that seemed to pool in his eyes, and he knew. If Darry could break the man’s neck and live, he would in a heartbeat. Even with this, Raegon still felt that pang of self-conscious insecurity when the lord would look at him.

‘ _You lost three brothers and a father, in my father’s war,’_ Rae thought in slight shame, as he thought fully about Robert’s Rebellion. ‘ _A war over me and my mother.’_ The door to the Darry armoury was made of thick ashwood and as it opened Raegon felt his eyes go wide. On the back wall, opposite the entrance door hung the red dragon of his house, proud and clean on its field of black. He looked to Lord Raymund, but he just ignored him and walked to a rack of dark armour on the left wall. As he followed the man he couldn’t help the questions that were lingering his mind. ‘ _Even after what my family has brought his own, he would honour them still?’_ As Raegon looked at the rack of armour the lord had told him that he could wear before giving him a curt nod and walking out of the chamber. ‘ _If you knew there was one more left, would you fight for them? Or would you say your family has given more than enough to repay the debt it owed to Maegor?’_

The armour was a simple, dark grey plate. The mail shirt he wore hugged his body some, but was still loose about the waist and arms. _‘I still have to grow, I guess,_ ’ he observed with a slight frown. The brestplate and pauldrons seemed thick enough, but they were light on his shoulders and his chest. As he put the visored helm under his arm, before he turned to the array of swords on in their respective sheaths. He reached for a bastard sword, the hilt a dark leather with a circular pommel. It looked sharp enough when he pulled it from the scabbard and inspected the blade itself, it was the right weight if a little light too, that test swings he gave made the air hum. As he walked back towards the great hall of the castle, Raegon was deep in his own mind. As they reached the door to the great hall of the the castle, Lord Darry gestured for a shield from one of the men he had standing at attention before turning to Raegon handed it to him. The doors to the hall began to open and Lord Raymund turned to him a sly smile on his lips.

“Good luck, Your Grace," Darry whispered, Raegon’s jaw slacked and he turned to the older man just as the King called out.

“Is the lad ready, Lord Darry? I assume he is.” Robert’s thick black beard and hair had been trimmed and cut and he looked less a fat drunkard and more a fat king.

“I am, Your Grace.” Rae answered as he took his eyes from the King, and to his uncle and cousins. He walked towards them and hugged Lord stark.

“I’m not pleased with this, lad. I promised your mother I’d do all I can to keep you safe.” Ned whispered into Raegon’s ear, before tightening the hug. “Live.”

Rae only nodded his head against his uncle’s shoulder and pulled away. He turned to Arya and used a gauntleted hand to ruffle her hair and gave her a small smile. “I’ll be back in a moment, Sister.” She gave him a smile of her own.

“Stick him with the pointy end, Jon.”

Raegon turned to the knight that would be Joffrey’s champion and frowned. He donned his grey helm and waited for the King to give them the go.

“I would rather not have a boy killed in a hall, for a petty grievance,” he turned and scowled at the Queen and her son, “Yet the lad is adamant in his stance, I can see the honour his father possesses and raised him with, and for that I laud him.” He took a deep breath and slammed a massive fist against armrest of the Lord’s Chair. “Let it be known that Jon Snow, bastard of House Stark, has come forth to stand accused of the crime of striking a son of a Crown. He, as is his right as the son of a high born Lord, has called for a Trial of combat, to be judged in the eyes of the gods.” He raised his right hand and paused for a moment the dropped it. “Begin.”

Raegon looked to Ser Preston and raised his shield. “Come Ser Preston, it seems one of us must die.”

“The only one who is dying today, Boy, is you.” The Kingsguard replied, pulling his golden blade free.

Rae drew the bastard sword from his side and slowly started circling the Kingsguard. Ser Preston’s golden armour almost seemed aflame in the flickering torchlight. Copying Rae, Ser Preston was also circling slowly, neither of them seemed eager to make the first move. The sword was light in his hand. Ser Preston lunged suddenly, his sword unerringly going straight for the small gap between Rae’ gorget and helmet.

Rae swung his shield into the path of the strike, diverting the sword away before stubbing with hi own blade, aiming for the gap between Ser Preston’s breastplate and pauldron, right for the unprotected armpit, but the cunning Westerman had already back-stepped to avoid Rae’s retaliatory strike.

This time it was Rae to go on the offensive. Stepping forward he smashed Ser Preston’s shield with his own, using his greater strength and stature to his advantage. Ser Preston reeled and let out a grunt of pain as Rae’s sword smashed into his helmet. A skilled warrior though, Ser Preston proved that he had earned his spurs by instinctively parrying Rae’s next strike.

Ser Preston tried to disorient Rae by landing a strike to the helmet only for Rae to successfully bring his own sword up to intercept. The blades clashed, striking off sparks and left both men with locked swords, both trying to overpower the other, until Rae suddenly let his sword drop and sidestepped.

Ser Preston was unprepared and stumbled forward only to let out an agonized yell as Rae drove his blade directly into the knee join of Preston’s right knee. Tumbling to the ground, Preston desperately tried to roll away only to gasp as Rae slammed his boot onto his back, driving the Knight into the floor.

Raising the sword over his head and reversing his grip on it so that the sword pointed down, he gave a smirk at the Queen that was hidden behind his visor, Rae drove the sword down, right into Ser Preston’s neck. The Knight let out a panicked gurgle and convulsed a few times as a pool of blood started to seep around him before finally falling still.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daemon: Here's the next chapter, me and Kaden already have the next one all plotted out. 'Hopefully' we'll have it up by Monday.
> 
> Kaden: 'Twas fun to write and play around with dialogue. Comment and talk.


	3. Chapter 3

** Raegon **

****

_‘So much for the standard of the Kingsguard.’_ Raegon thought dryly as he pulled his borrowed bastard sword from the fallen knight’s neck. _’Men like Ser Aemon, Arthur and Ser Duncan must be rolling in their graves, to see what their White Brotherhood has been reduced to. I knew it would be a gamble, but I never thought he would go down that easily.’_ Rae had been hoping that the standard of the Kingsguard had dropped some, since Oswell left with his brother and men like Ser Arthur and Ser Gerold died. But he hadn’t expected it to be so easy and so disappointing.

“Ha!” Robert bellowed from atop the Lord’s chair, as Raegon removed his helm, the grin on the King’s face wide and boisterous. With a chuckle he looked to his blonde wife, “There you have it, Lannister. Even _your_ gods favour the lad. Well fought lad. Been some time since I’ve seen a good bout.” The King said with a handsome smile. Raegon had heard it said once that before he took the Throne, Robert was the Warrior reborn, built like a maiden’s wet dream. When Rae looked at the King as his stood from his seat, he could barely see it, but he _could_ see it. Even with fat on his cheeks and his drinker’s gut he could see the glimpses of a strong jaw and a barrelled chest.

“Let it be heard that in the eyes of gods and men, that through his victory in Trial by Combat the bastard, Jon Snow of the House Stark has been declared innocent of the crime he is accused of. All charges and pursuit of punishment are dropped by Royal decree.” Robert announced with an indifferent expression and a shrug before he sat back into the high-backed chair. “Now, if someone could get me a fucking drink, that’d be great. Ned, I would break words with you in private.”

“I beg a moment with my son, Your Grace. It seems I must find sense in his madness.” Rae felt an instinctual gulp, he knew a lecture would come. He looked to the King, hoping what he needed to discuss would be urgent and could not wait. But the King simply smiled at his closest friend and nodded.

“Aye take your time, Ned. Don’t be too hard on him.”

When Raegon and his uncle stood alone in the chamber’s Lord Darry had provided for Ned, the Lord of Winterfell turned to his young, headstrong nephew.

“Close the door, Jon.” Eddard stated simply, Rae knew better that to argue and say that was not his name. He had a terrible temper, yes, and he was too wilful and set in his ways. But he could hear the tightness in his uncle’s voice and chose to obey. Once he closed the door and turned back to face his uncle Ned regarded him with Winter’s cold fury in his grey Stark eyes.

“Have you lost mind!?” He practically shouted at the lad. “What _possessed_ you to seek a trial by combat? Myself and Robert could have sorted the situation before you almost got yourself killed!”

“I’m completely sane, _Uncle._ ” Raegon replied coldly, causing the anger in his uncle’s eyes to falter, “You know well as I the Queen would settle for nothing less than bloodshed. You saw how she looked at Arya and I. If not my hand I’m sure she would have found another way to punish me. And for what? Striking an insolent boy too spoiled and self-entitled to know not to lay hands on a girl. He pointed a blade at her, Father.” Calling him father wasn’t intentional, and realistically it was a complete slip of the tongue. But if Rae was honest with himself it wasn’t a lie. Eddard Stark _was_ his father. He was the man who had raised him, and taught him. And even as angry as he was to have lived a lie his whole life, Raegon wouldn’t change that fact. “Would you have rather I be a Southron knight and stand dutifully while a cruel monarch assaults a girl half his size? I’m sure you wouldn’t.”

“Aye, you’re right Jon, and I thank you for protecting your sister where I couldn’t. But that still doesn’t excuse your coming South against my wishes.” Ned’s eyes softened as they met Rae’s bright lilac, he stepped closer to his nephew and put a hand on his shoulder. “You know it’s not safe for you here lad. The south is a dangerous place, full of secrets and whispers. King’s Landing alone is a snake pit, full of silver tongued lords and mummers playing at friends.”

“Then why are you going?” Rae’s voice was full of scepticism as he raised a dark eyebrow. “Why not tell the King that the South is no place for you? That your father and brother’s deaths still linger and cause you pain the further south of the Wolfswood you go?” He knew bringing up the deaths of his uncle and grandfather was a cheap and low move, but he had to know.

Rae understood why _he_ was going south, but his uncle had no lost heritage to reclaim in the lands south of the neck. So far as Rae knew, Lord Stark was not plagued by the same dreams of burning castles and septs atop a great black dragon, or fighting against men of the Seven Pointed Star as he was.

“I know you don’t see the logic in what I’m saying and doing. But Robert is as close to a brother to me as Brandon was, if not closer still. I’ve seen what the South has turned him into, a drunk and broken man still hung up on the death on a woman that never loved him. He’s let the Lannisters and the rest of the Southerners make him grow weary of the life he lives. In truth I fear for his life, he drinks more than he speaks.” Ned explained with a pained smile, “This isn’t the Robert I grew up with, and if I let him die like this without so much as trying to save him, I’ll not live with myself. So aye, I’m going South to be his Hand, because without Jon Arryn there to look out for him, he’ll drink himself into the grave. But just because _I_ am going South does not mean you are. The south is no place for a Stark of Winterfell, Raegon.” Whispered Ned quietly, and Rae felt emotion well in his chest and had to resisted the urge to hug his surrogate father then.

“It’s a good thing I am not a Stark of Winterfell then, Father.” Rae replied with a small, sad smile.

Ned shook his head with a dismayed smile of his own, “I promised your mother I’d raise you well, as she would have had she lived. I fear sometimes I fall short of what is expected of me, but I see so much of her in you, lad.” He placed a firm hand on Raegon’s shoulder and squeezed it gently, “You will always be a Stark, Rae. You may not have my name, but Stark blood runs in your veins, you have lived your whole life in the North. You are _of_ the North; you **_are_** a Stark of Winterfell, as much as Robb or Bran or I. Never forget that, it will keep you warm when Winter comes.” Ned patted his shoulder one last time before opening the chamber doors and walking out, leaving Rae alone with his thoughts.

 

** Eddard **

****

Ned shook his head sadly as he walked to a Robert who was apparently deep in his cups already. He had spent the last hour or so, first comforting Sansa, trying to reassure her that she did nothing wrong, even if he was disappointed that she had not supported her brother and sister by telling the truth. The law was known well enough that Sansa knew the punishment for striking a Prince unless extreme circumstances merited the action.

He had then had to talk to Arya. As expected Arya was livid, she and Sansa had always clashed, as different as night and day, yet ironically they both reminded him of Lyanna. Arya with her wildness, and Sansa who shared Lyanna’s passions for flowers, tales and music. One could even say that Sansa was just like Lyanna, falling for a handsome Prince to the point that all consequences or actions never entered her mind. He hated seeing his daughters quarrel so, and with some of the words Arya had spoken in private about Sansa he’d no choice but to take her over his knee, the first time in near two years he’d been forced to do so, and he gained no pleasure nor satisfaction from striking his child, but she needed discipline.

Both he, and his brothers had felt the back of their Lord Father’s hand often enough, while Lyanna was Lord Rickard’s little Princess. Mayhap if she had been disciplined harsher as a child she would not have done what she did – But Lyanna was dead and her bones were cold, only her sons and her memory lived on now. Opening the door to the large set of rooms Robert was using Ned felt a stab of sorrow run through him as he laid eyes on Robert. Robert may fool the world with his boisterous nature, but he was as close as, if not closer than any of Ned’s brothers, estranged though they may be after the aftermath of the Sack of King’s Landing. Ned could still see that Robert was a broken man.

Behind every laugh, every grin there was a broken man who had given up on everything, save for his wines and whores.

“NED!” Robert laughed, his voice already slurring at this point. “That bastard of yours Ned,” Robert let out another few chuckles. “Reminds me of myself and Brandon in our youths, Gods we were strong then.”

Ned let out a small chuckle. “The boy is much like Brandon,” he admitted.

“Fortunately for your Lady wife he doesn’t chase skirts like Brandon eh?” Robert japed while giving Ned a punch to the shoulder.

“I thank the gods for that every day,” Ned muttered while rubbing his shoulder – Robert still didn’t know his own strength. “I don’t think Winterfell would be liveable if he chased young maidens like Brandon,” Ned admitted – Nor did Ned relish the idea of half a dozen women appearing in Winterfell, each of them with a purple eyed, silver haired babe in arms. That a child of Jon’s could be born looking like his or her Targaryen grandfather was one of his worst nightmares.

“A shame that he was born a bastard,” Robert chuckled. “Had he been trueborn he probably would’ve made the eight with ease, still might with looks like his.” Robert narrowed his eyes at Ned. “I never did notice when I saw him as a babe but there is something… familiar about the lad.”

Ned could feel ice creep up his spine, _did he know?_

“Relax Ned,” Robert tried to calm him. “I know why you lied.”

Ned was shaking by now, “Robert.”

Robert laughed. “Couldn’t let Hoster know that Brandon had a bastard running around eh?” he winked. “Could have caused problems, better pretend he’s yours.”

“He is mine,” Ned said stonily, only to duck as Robert spewed his wine in an impressive fountain.

“For fuck’s sake Ned this is me,” he glared at Ned. “I know you well enough by know that you’d sooner cut off your own cock than betray your marriage vows,” he took another sip of wine. “Lie to the world to spare your brother’s reputation and avoid problems with your goodfather, that’s definitely you though.”

“I think I’ll take that drink now,” Ned said shakily as he reached for the nearest jug of wine and raised the whole damn thing to his mouth to sip deeply. _‘Thank the Gods for that,’_ he thought to himself, for the first time actually grateful of Brandon’s temper and whoring ways.

 

** Raegon **

****

Rae’s mind was still on the earlier conversation he had with his uncle, _‘You are a Stark. Never forget that.’_ He let the smile on his face linger as he walked through the halls of Darry Castle. He had returned the armour and sword that had been given to him for use. And was currently in search of the castle's kitchens to see if he could find a morsel to ease the hunger in his stomach when he noticed a guardsman walking the same corridor.

“Pardon m’lord,” the guard clad in the livery of House Darry, a black ploughman on brown called as he approached him. “M’lord Darry wishes to speak with you in his private solar.”

Raegon felt sweat break out on his brow. When Darry had called him ‘Your Grace’ there had been no time to ponder, no time to worry, but now! _‘Might it be that there are still those loyal to my father’s House?’_ Raegon thought. _‘My House?’_

Considering himself as a Targaryen had been easier than he thought. He would always cherish his Stark heritage but there was just something… missing, something that just did not feel right. To this very day he still felt uncomfortable – unwanted – in the Stark crypts. Feeling the stern eyes and faces carved in stone looking down at him. ‘You’re not worthy, you don’t belong here’ they’d whisper to him, and they were right. He was a dragon, had always been, his black temper known throughout Winterfell and yes, the North even, what with the smallfolk gossiping like fishwives.

The door closed behind him and he found himself alone with Lord Darry and a pair of guards. Lord Raymund studied him closely, eyes taking in every aspect of Raegon’s features. “I’m glad to see that I was not mistaken… Your Grace,” Raymund said at last.

“How did you find out?” Rae asked, there was no point in playing ignorance here. The smile on Darry’s face was too telling.

Lord Raymund stood up. “You look like him,” he said before drawing back a set of curtains to reveal a painting, almost as big as Raegon himself, and Rae felt as if he was staring at a mirror image. The man in the painting was older of course, but their faces and their eyes were mostly the same, also, while the style of hair might be similar, Rae as of yet did not have the beard, and his hair was black rather than silver-gold.

“Who…?” Rae asked numbly, while studying the picture closer. The man in the image was wearing a coat of black scales, metal gauntlets clasped an almost black sword with a smooth round ruby set in the crossguard, a circlet of steel and rubies crowned the man’s silver hair.

“Your forefather, Aegon The Dragon,” Lord Raymund added when Raegon first frowned in confusion. “You are near the mirror image of your great ancestor, still a bit of height yet to go, but you are already near as broad as Aegon was.” Raymund snapped his fingers and one of the guards approached, Rae’s saddlebags in his hands. “But still I might have taken it as coincidence were it not for these,” he said calmly while removing one letter after another, ending with the marriage proclamation between his parents.

“Curious relics for a bastard,” Raymund laughed. “But you are no bastard, Your Grace. I felt as soon as I saw you, that there had to be dragonblood in you, but it was when my man brought this to me that I knew for certain, and we are fortunate he did, one of the Lannister soldiers was about to do it when my man stopped him.”

Raegon let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you My Lord.”

Raymund sneered. “Anytime I can inconvenience a Lannister man is a good day I think, I must commend Honourable Ned Stark, I never thought he had it in him.” Raymund snapped his fingers again and one of the guards swiftly left, before returning with a carafe of white wine and a plate of dried fruits. “I’m afraid I cannot offer better at this very moment,” Darry apologized as Rae accepted the seat that was offered to him.

“I thank you for your hospitality My Lord,” Raegon replied as he took a sip of the wine, wincing at the unfamiliar taste.

“New to drinking I imagine,” Darry grinned slightly.

“Not as such,” Rae countered. “Though I’m more familiar with ale rather than wine.”

“You’ll grow used to it,” Raymund admitted. “Might I… might I ask what you intend to do?”

Raegon pondered if he should tell the truth or not. On one hand he did not know the man, but then again. Darry could have revealed him to Robert. House Darry owed everything to House Targaryen, and had given a lot in return, _‘three dead sons and a Lord in the rebellion,’_ he thought. If any House had proven its loyalty it was Darry.

 “I intend to see penance paid for the Rebellion.” Rae stated simply before taking another sip of the clear wine, it tasted as sweet as any Northern mead as a smirk lifted the corners of his lips, “Starting with entering my uncle’s tourney.”

Raymund raised an eyebrow.

“What better way to start than to have the Lannisters begin paying their debts to me?”

Raymund laughed. “You might find it hard to enter, but I can help you there.” on seeing Raegon’s look he elaborated. “The Usurper and his Lannister bitch has a dislike for mystery knights for some reason, demanding lavish entry fees for any mystery knights wishing to compete, were you to ride under Darry colours however...”

“I would have a way in,” Rae finished. “A fine idea My Lord, a fine idea indeed.”

“I think we’ll wait a few days before traveling to your city, in the meantime, the hospitality of Darry is yours.”

 

** Cregan **

****

“That fucking fool,”

“Harren, watch your language, please!”

Cregan smiled at the voices that echoed through the hold of the Shy Maiden, he knew there was some form of news that Oswell had uncovered while their ship had docked in Pentos to resupply and give them some respite from the constant rocking and swaying that was becoming more and more irritating. As he made his way to the room that served as the captain’s cabin, he found his mind wandering, _‘I wonder if there’s any news of Raegon in the west.’_ He had grown up raised with the notion of a brother that he had never met lived in the North of Westeros with their uncle. A twin nonetheless. The thought still amazed Cregan; that there was a part of him out there somewhere that he had never encountered before.

“What’s happened?” He asked as he closed the door behind him, Harren, Ser Rolly, Halfmaester Haldon and Lemore were seated around the large circular table, “Is it Jon?” They’d all grown used to secret names and hushed tones in the time they’d spent on the Shy Maiden.

 _“There are too many ears that belong to not so friendly people, lad.”_ Oswell had explained to Cregan when he’d turned seven exactly who Cregan was, “Easier to say my name is Harren than go around taking those ears, and the heads they’re attached to, don’t you think?” He chuckled darkly as he mussed Cregan’s dyed black hair. Cregan had hated the dye when he was first told it was necessary, the putrid smell of it setting in his hair before the liquid itself could be washed out. Even now it still bothered him, but he had grown used to it.

“No, no Cregan, it’s not Jon. It’s, -” Lemore started, her rich brown hair hidden by the septa’s shawl she wore.

“It’s about Viserys, lad. The idiot’s as mad as his father was.” Harren interrupted seething, his own hair a dyed black. Cregan looked at the two and raised a greyish eyebrow before Haldon gave him a small apologetic smile.

“Viserys has married Daenerys to some Dothraki warlord in hopes of using the Khal’s screamers to wage war on Westeros.” There was a quiet in the room as Cregan’s brows furrowed in confusion. He remembered Harren and Lemore telling him of his family, and what was left of them. Viserys had been his father’s only brother, born some years before the Rebellion. Daenerys was his aunt, but she was of an age with him and his brother, if not slightly younger, _'I wish I could have met them,'_ he thought sadly.

“I knew we should have gotten our hands on them before we left Pentos for Volantis a year past when we learned of them. Now that mad fool has pissed all over us.” Harren said with a scowl and a shake of the head.

“Keep your voice down, _Harren_ ,” Lemore cautioned glaring at him through dark purple eyes. “We went over this; the risk was too great. We couldn’t risk the Prince being exposed, Ned would kill us.”

“Bugger that sour cunt, if Eddard Stark had his way the King and the Prince would be raised on IB with those hairy bastards.”

Cregan frowned. He didn't know his uncle but surely he couldn't be that bad? "Perhaps," he paused, "Perhaps something can be done when we've retaken Westeros?" he asked. He knew that Oswell would have preferred that Daenerys be wed to his brother, _“Her name would add to your brother's legitimacy”_ he had told him once.

Oswell stroked his beard. "Perhaps," he admitted. "I've kept some tabs on other exiles who fled after the rebellion. The blasted spider helped with that." Harren looked about as if to ensure they were alone, and old habit of his by now. "Jon Connington has been made the new Captain-General of the Golden Company."

"The Golden Company? Connington, what the fuck have you been drinking?" Lemore asked incredulously.

"Language young lady," Oswell sniggered smugly. "The Golden Company for all that they are sellswords are still mostly exiles or descendants of them, they want to go home, and Connington may have despised the Stark chit, but we still have two of Rhaegar's sons, and a usurper on the throne." All points of argument Lemore appeared to have ready to fire seemed to evaporate as she simply nodded in accent.

“I heard tell from a sellsail in the tavern I canvassed that they signed a contract with Myr to fight on their behalf in a war in the Disputed Lands. Are all agreed that this is the next path we take?” After seeing everyone’s nods of assent, Harren stood.

“Good, I’ll go inform the captain that we have a heading.”

 

 

 

 

 

**So yeah, you're welcome.**

**Gratitude,**

**KadenIV**

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

 

**Well there's the next one. We'll try to have some Cregan PoV's at least every other chapter. Next chapter we get to King's Landing, and we learn some more of Lemore's past.**

**Cheers**

**Daemon Belaerys**


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